


All That Hammer & Scrape

by echoist



Series: Show Me Where Trouble Goes [3]
Category: The Following
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, M/M, Torture, townhouse of lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>To him who is in fear, everything rustles.</i>  - Sophocles, from Acrisius</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Hammer & Scrape

He's been waiting in the cell for what feels like hours, a blindfold over his eyes and his hands bound painfully with elastic ties behind his back. His mouth is dry and choked with the taste of dried blood, overriding the dank smell of the underground chamber. He doesn't know how long he and Jacob have been there, or how long Joe's lackeys intend to keep them before they run out of creative ways to pump them for information. They're only useful if their captors think they're holding something back; once they realise there's nothing left to give, Paul and Jacob will become disposable. The only thing Paul knows for certain is that they'll never leave the bunker alive.

 

They'd been asleep in some nameless roadside motel in Georgia, wrapped close around each other in the afterglow, when the knock sounded at the door. 'Don't answer it,' he'd hissed, fumbling in the bedside table for his pistol, but Jacob hadn't listened. Still half asleep, he'd thrown on a pair of sweats and gotten out of bed, mumbling something about the manager and maybe they'd made too much noise. He'd looked over his shoulder at Paul with a smirk, before pulling back the chain and turning over the deadbolt.

The door crashed in, sending Jacob sprawling to the floor. Paul was up and crouched behind him in an instant, a bowie knife in his hand instead of the weapon he'd expected. Three men in paramilitary gear rushed the entryway, black ski masks covering their faces. One of them tore Jacob from his grasp, his arms pulled roughly behind his back before Paul could move to stop him. He moved in slow motion, rising from the floor as if underwater while a second intruder struck the back of Jacob's skull with his rifle. Time sped up, and Paul found his knife buried in the gap between a bulletproof vest and a thick leather belt. He twisted the blade, jerking it sideways to rip a broad hole in the man's abdomen, puncturing the mesentery fascia and the delicate loop of intestines below. The man fell to the ground, doubled over in pain, blood spilling from his midsection like water though a broken dam. The third man cursed and smacked the side of his head with the barrel of a pistol, _Paul's pistol_ , and he staggered. His vision swam, and he saw Jacob lying helpless on the ground, arms and legs tied, his eyelids shut.

He turned on his heel, ripping the gun from his would-be captor's grasp but the first man was quick, a sharp kick to his right knee resounding with a crack and sending him down. The cold barrel of a rifle pressed against the back of his head and he struggled, uselessly to stand. 'Give up,' one of them sneered, snatching back the pistol and Paul recognized the voice. He'd only met Brock and Vincent once, but that had been enough. A pair of gung-ho separatist shitheads, who shot first and never got around to asking.

 _This is where it ends_ , Paul thought, Brock pushing the business end of the pistol into his mouth. It scraped his teeth like nails on a chalkboard and he could feel the scream building up inside of him while Vince tied his hands. 'It's over,' Vince says softly, leaning down to whisper in his ear. 'By the time we're done with you, you'll tell us everything.'

'Either that,' Brock threw in casually, as if flipping a coin, 'Or you'll be dead. Win-win.' They hauled him to his feet, taking the gun from his mouth and pushing him from behind toward the door. Brock kicked Jacob in the ribs with a sickening crunch, and he woke briefly to cry out in pain. Paul couldn't stop the shout from his mouth, calling out Jacob's name in fear. A rough kick to his lower back was all he got for his trouble, before being dragged out to the gravel lot and forced into a nondescript white van. Brock threw Jacob over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, tossing him in the back beside Paul as forcefully as he could manage. Jacob was bleeding, blood clotting in his hair and dripping down over his lips as he coughed.

Brock tied dark strips of heavy cloth over their eyes and slammed the back panels shut before joining Vince in the front compartment. The harsh squeal of metal against metal ricocheted inside Paul's head and he wriggled against the bindings, trying to find the slightest give. 'Jacob,' he whispered, desperate for an answer. 'Are you all right?'

Nothing but silence greeted his words, and every bump and pothole in the road sent sparks flaring across his vision. He tried to track the roads at first, map the turns and stops beneath their wheels, but the shudder of the steel floor beneath them drew his mind off course. The rolling motion of the van, weaving in and out of traffic, sent him tumbling into a deep void before he ever heard an answer.

 

Joe's people had them for certain, each locked in separate cells in what could only be the bunker he'd heard Vincent bragging about. They'd never come here for 'training', or whatever Joe called his particular form of conditioning. He and Jacob had been eager and willing, all in from the beginning; they’d never needed encouragement. Sarah Fuller had been their only test, the one thing Joe asked of them, and they'd failed. Paul didn't know why he'd ever entertained the notion that they could make a clean escape. The group had come from everywhere, _was_ everywhere, and had probably been onto them the moment they booked those tickets to Sioux Falls. Joe knew he didn't have family there, knew there was no reason for them to travel so far out of range except the obvious. They'd been trying to run away, and that was an unforgivable betrayal.

Paul remembered the first time he'd met Joe in person, almost six years ago now. His words, the spark of recognition in his eyes as he _saw_ something in Paul, recognized the potential that no one else in his life had ever managed to find. It had been seductive, intoxicating. He'd read all the trash crime novels, Ryan Hardy's included, studied the killings and the crime scenes and Joe's methodology. He'd compared himself to Joe Carroll over and over in his mind, just a drifter then, hopping trains from town to town and claiming any target that presented itself. He was careful, sure, but Joe had taught him how to focus his anger, how to savor each life taken while the blood pooled beneath his fingers and the light drained from their eyes. He'd taught Paul how to cover his tracks, and how to vanish – or so he'd thought.

If he was honest with himself, Paul probably would have self-destructed long before now it if hadn't been for Joe. That first real meeting, off the internet but still behind glass, when Joe had smiled slyly and said, 'You know, there's someone I'd like you to meet.' The young man that approached him in the coffee bar was nothing like Paul had expected, all prep school manners and expensive clothes. Jacob even seemed afraid to sit down, at first, as if sticking his fingers through the cage at a hungry wolf. The awkwardness had drained away over two cups of cappuccino, leading back to Emma's attic, and all the secrets it contained. All the promise inherent in the plan, shining out from two blue eyes that glanced his way, only to look away again. From then on, for Paul it had always been less about Joe and more about Jacob, even when Emma would straddle his lap and kiss away the words on his lips. Rick and Maggie, giggling together in their corner, their hands joined in conspiracy and Paul, off to the side, still laughing at the wrong joke.

The door to his cell squeaks open, interrupting the train wreck of memories. Booted footsteps on the concrete announce the return of his captors, and with them, the immanent arrival of pain. Someone hauls him to his feet, his twisted knee still not able to support his weight, and a punch to the gut sends him back to the floor. His forehead smacks against the unforgiving cement, and he forces down the grunt, the cry of pain swelling against broken teeth.

'You think he's ready to talk, yet?' he hears Vince's voice ask an unknown companion. A booted foot slams against his ribcage, cracking a few more bones, and Paul spits out a mouthful of blood. 'I don't -' he tries, forcing out the words between bruised and swollen lips.

'Sure you do,' comes a soft, southern voice, probably belonging to the boot still digging into his side.

'The fuck do you want from me, huh?' Paul manages to ask in a series of short gasps, struggling to kneel on the floor. A sharp stab of pain races from his dislocated patella all the way down his shin and he tries not to show the pain.

'It's simple,' Vince answers. 'You tell us exactly what you told the cops, or the FBI, or whoever you two little faggots ratted us out to, and we'll stop rearranging your face.'

'We didn't. Sell. You out,' Paul spits, anger rising in his chest with every labored breath. He's fairly certain one of his lungs is punctured, and even if he could see, his vision would be blurred and dim from a lack of oxygen. 'We just left. The plan - you can still, can pull it off -' A kick to his jaw sends a fresh wave of blood swilling about his mouth as his cheek shreds against his teeth.

'No one leaves,' Vince laughs. ' _That's_ the plan, you idiot. Fucking civilians,' he mutters.

Paul hears Jacob's voice, echoing loud in the concrete warren, accompanied by sharp cracks and muffled thumps. 'Nothing!' he shouts, the word followed by muffled conversation and a loud grunt of pain. 'We didn't _tell_ anyone, I swear -' Jacob's voice cuts off mid-sentence with a horrifying gurgle, and Paul screams for him until his throat is raw, his voice breaking over the name.

'You gonna give us something now?' The quiet man asks, and Paul can feel the cloth being lifted from his eyes. Both men stand facing him, staring down at the blood and the bruises with perfectly blank faces. A mess of short black hair crowns one pale, fleshy mask, a shock of light brown curls above the other. No eyes meet his gaze, no mouths split their faces to form words, and yet they come, all the same, echoing in his head.

'You made your choice,' Paul hears as the rifle slams against his jaw in slow motion, and he tries not to swallow shards of his teeth. A man with no face primes a shotgun with one hand, the sound echoing loud and unforgiving inside his battered skull. He closes his eyes, pictures Jacob's bright smile before they closed the garage door for the last time, and silently begs his forgiveness. The bullet leaves the chamber and his mind fractures, the whole world gone to black.

 

Paul sits up in a tangle of sheets, soaked through with sweat. Jacob's arms wrap tight around his chest, one hand over his heart. He can feel Jacob's fluttering pulse through his wrist, competing with the hammering of his own. 'Paul,' Jacob whispers, and the clock reads 2:35 am. 'Paul,' Jacob says again, more insistently. 'It was a dream, ok? I'm here with you.' Paul nods slowly, still not quite sure of himself or his surroundings. He can feel his limbs shaking as Jacob squeezes his shoulder and strokes one hand gently down his back. 'Whatever it was,' Jacob says, 'It's over. It was never real.'

'It's not going to happen,' Paul says quietly, unable to find his own voice. He pushes back the sheet, throws unsteady legs over the side of the bed. Jacob's hands slide away as he rises to his feet, his hand landing on the window ledge for support. He stares out at the darkened neighborhood, seeing only the trees where someone could hide, the shadows cast by streetlamps tossed about by the wind. Jacob craws out of bed to stand behind him, but Paul moves to the bathroom, throwing on the light and running the tap. He splashes water on his face and rubs it dry with a towel, before turning back to the mirror.

His own reflection shocks him, an empty expanse of skin where his face should be and he staggers back in unbridled fear. Jacob pulls him in and holds him close, letting Paul bury his head against his shoulder. 'I don't know who I am,' he whispers against the yielding warmth of Jacob's skin. Hands move solid and steady up his back, pulling him back to his bones.

'I do,' Jacob answers, turning his head to plant a soft kiss against the top of Paul's head. 'Come back to bed?' He asks, pulling back enough to see Paul's face. He wipes away the tears threatening to spill over, his own face filled with worry. Paul knows Jacob's never seen him like this, he's never _let_ him see the overwhelming fear that keeps him awake some nights. 'In a minute,' he answers, lingering in Jacob's warmth for another few moments before moving to the windows, checking the locks.

Paul walks the house from room to room, Grace steady at his heels, verifying the security of every possible entrance. Every door, every window, is locked up tight as a drum, but he can't shake the lingering terror that quakes beneath his chest. He pours a thin line of scotch in a heavy glass, sitting down at the table and turning it around with his fingers. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there before he hears a familiar tread on the stairs, and Jacob stands beside him, one hand outstretched. Grace looks between them both and lays down at Paul's feet.

'All you have to do tomorrow is finish packing,' Jacob reminds him. 'Everything else is in order, we've been over it a thousand times.' Paul nods, still staring down at the honeyed circle inside the tumbler. 'Whatever you saw?” Jacob says, his words turning up in the question Paul knows he won't ask. 'It's not going to happen. This is _our_ plan now.' He covers Paul's hand where it twitches around the glass and Paul twines their fingers together.

'I know,' he says, his voice hoarse but steady. Jacob ruffles his hair and he leans into the touch, lifting the glass and tipping it up to his lips. Jacob pulls him from his seat, taking the empty tumbler from his hands without a word. Paul doesn't look back, and they climb the stairs together to wait out the dawn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the third chapter that everyone wanted - in fact, it's probably a chapter that _no one_ wanted, and I'm sorry. I'm a bit bogged down writing the next section that was to be Chapter Three, and will likely now be Chapter Four. I tried to write something else to clear my head, and this is what happened. Don't hate me?


End file.
